


something beautiful, a contradiction

by holograms



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Blood, Consensual Violence, Dysfunctional Relationships, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he can’t explain why a punch in the face feels like a warm embrace</p>
            </blockquote>





	something beautiful, a contradiction

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [a prompt](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/post/120635823757/hullo-can-you-do-a-whiplash-post-movie-smut-fic) for an anon on my tumblr.
> 
> Title is from the song "Time is Running Out" by Muse.
> 
> Content warnings for light BDSM, consensual violence (including hitting and slapping to the point of bleeding), blood mention, probable abusive relationships, talk of death and dying, and kind of explicit sex.

He bruises so nicely, and he bleeds even better.

If Fletcher would let him, he would see how much he could bleed.   He’d test it — find out just how much of himself could he lose before he disappears. It’s strange to him to think that something that he gives so freely, that precious crimson trapped right beneath his skin, is needed to live.  Most times he feels like an automaton, unconstructed by trivial things such as sleeping and breathing and having an approximate number of liters of blood pulsing through his veins.

Andrew is not pure by any means — he’s an arduous, barbed-wire artifact.  It’s a good thing Fletcher’s just as dreadful.  With anyone else, Andrew would have been left alone a long time ago, or he would have killed himself out of boredom.

(But he will die one day, he knows, probably sooner rather than later, but he won’t really die, he’ll live on and on and on with a permanence that only musical immortality can offer.)

Letting Fletcher fuck him is a worst-best decision. The reasoning behind the _worst_ part is obvious, but the _best_ part is not as clear.  All Andrew knows is that it makes his dick hard when he thinks about it, so he settles on it being a way to get his mind unscrambled as well as providing an opportunity to let Fletcher beat the shit out of him (but under his own conditions).

Like now: Andrew is on his back, long legs hooked around Fletcher’s waist, heels pressed into the small of his back as Fletcher shoves into him roughly — a look complete with newly drawn blood staining his mouth.

Andrew is sure that he enjoys it more than Fletcher, but Andrew catches that furtive glance of Fletcher’s — stormy eyes giving a through examination of the blood on Andrew’s lip and the bruising blossoming under his eye.  Fletcher can’t hide that he has a predilection for it, too.  He tries not to always be the sadistic motherfucker who he presents himself to be — sometimes it’s very vanilla when they fuck, a thought that surprises Andrew still (last week Fletcher took him to fucking Olive Garden and then when they came home they watched a show on Netflix that Fletcher likes before they went to bed and quickly got each other off with their mouths before falling asleep) — but it doesn’t take much encouragement from Andrew to get Fletcher to gift him aggressive little strikes of his crafting.  Hand pulled back, arcing in a perfect trajectory to smack his cheek, mouth, chest, nose, ass — any part of Andrew, anything that can hurt.

He wants Fletcher to reveal it. He needs him to, because Andrew can’t help but be the sick bastard who wants it from him, and he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to drag Fletcher down as he drags him down into hell, too. If he had to describe it all he’d say it’s _comforting,_ but he can’t explain why a punch in the face feels like a warm embrace.  But.  He thinks Fletcher understands.  Fletcher acquiesces and he usually knows what Andrew wants before Andrew does himself, so Andrew trusts him in this too. 

Fletcher doesn’t ever hit him in anger, but maybe in annoyance, and maybe Andrew provokes him into it in contexts other than these. But now, when it’s skin against skin, breathy gasps, cock buried in him moving in a steady rhythm, Andrew asks for it and Fletcher hits him and barely gives Andrew enough time to stop reeling before smacking him again.

Fletcher reaches forward and runs his thumb against Andrew’s lips, smearing the blood there and trailing it down in a painted streak on his chin.  Andrew groans, almost a primal noise, and juts his head into Fletcher’s palm.  It’s his way of asking for it.

(Fletcher could kill him, Andrew knows. Maybe not directly, but maybe as a side effect — driven to an overdose, or inspiring him to make a noose that fits perfectly around his neck.  Or maybe Fletcher _would_ be the one to do it.  If he does, Andrew hopes he does it with his bare hands.)

This is what he thinks of when he gets another slap, open palm and fingers splayed against his cheek.  “Kill me,” Andrew breathes.  Maybe if he asks nicely, he will.

With half a smile Fletcher reaches forward and brushes at the sweaty hair sticking to Andrew’s forehead.  “As if you could get away so easily.”  It’s almost sweet the way he says it, like he’s talking to someone who doesn’t know any better. 

(Maybe he doesn’t.)

But also: Andrew can get vicious too. He balls his fist and slams Fletcher’s chest, hitting his sternum in a dulled gunshot _bang bang_ , and Andrew swears he hears an echo because he’s so empty inside. 

In a simple motion, Fletcher grabs the hand beating on his chest and holds it until Andrew stops struggling to hit him. Keeping his gaze on Andrew, he brings his hand to his mouth, scraping teeth over well-formed calluses before uncurling Andrew’s fist and sliding one of his fingers in his mouth and sucking hard. Andrew makes a strangled noise at the back of this throat, and arches his hips grinding up onto Fletcher.

“Harder,” Andrew gasps.  “ _Please._ ”  Fletcher likes it when he begs, and since Andrew likes it when Fletcher readily does sometime he asks, he ends up utilizing begging often. 

Gruffly, Fletcher slips out of Andrew — Andrew whining at the loss of the full feeling inside — and taps at Andrew’s hip. “Turn over.”

In a tangle of limbs Andrew does as instructed, bracing himself on his elbows and putting his ass in the air. It’s a revealing and somewhat embarrassing position, but his breath catches in his throat as he anticipates what comes next.  He can’t get enough, and as he slyly looks over his shoulder, he realizes how doomed he really is.   Relief quickly follows at how reassuring that thought is (it's a certainty, he knows where he's going), and he can’t help but laugh at how fucked up that is.

As Fletcher kneels behind him he sees Andrew’s manic grin, he rolls his eyes, muttering, “Crazy fucker.”

“Old psychopath.”  Terms of endearment, for them.

Andrew hears Fletcher huff as he aligns himself and pushes back into Andrew without warning, and the jolt is enough for Andrew to gasp and make his already aching dick throb more.

Using Andrew’s body as support, Fletcher angles himself and starts thrusting into him, every time hitting against that spot that makes Andrew writhe and moan.  They’re both close, Andrew knows by the way Fletcher’s thighs shudder against the backs of his, at how his breathing becomes labored, and how he leans heavily into Andrew’s back, mostly from exhaustion.  Amused, Andrew asks, "Tired?"

“Shut up,” Fletcher says, and grabs the nape of Andrew’s neck and roughly forces his head down.  Andrew’s arms buckle and face falls into the mattress, inhaling fabric at his mouth and nose.  When Andrew turns his head, he sees a smear of blood on slate-gray colored sheets. He would laugh if he weren’t thinking about how it would be to stain them until they were soaked with red.

It’s a few beats later and Andrew feels Fletcher come deep inside him.  It’s a sick pleasure, and Andrew arches his back and groans almost miserably, so desperate for release, desperate for that harm that Fletcher makes just for him, so much that the only word he can make out is a choked, “ _Please_.”

His body still shaky from orgasm, Fletcher roughly flips Andrew over and straddles his hips.  Andrew’s eyes flutter shut as Fletcher wraps one hand around Andrew’s cock and starts pumping him quickly as he brings his other hand down and hits Andrew in a beat of four against his chest, his throat, his cheek, under his eye, each time letting out an sharp exhale and increasing in power.

Overwhelmed, Andrew cries out, spurting over Fletcher's hand. Tears sting in the corners of his eyes as he says Fletcher’s name, and stifles a sob.

As Andrew comes down, Fletcher climbs off him and reaches over to grab tissues from the nightstand.  He wipes off his hand and then cleans between Andrew’s thighs, then moves to his stomach and softening dick.  Andrew is sensitive to the light touch, and he quivers and whines softly as Fletcher brushes against his skin.

Fletcher tosses the tissues into the wastebasket next to the bed and props himself up on an elbow as he looks down at Andrew. Reaching forward, he touches his face, inspecting him.

( _Inspecting his damage,_ Andrew thinks.) 

“I’m fine,” Andrew says.  His voice is rough, hoarse from being walloped with a strong palm.

Fletcher makes a noise that hints at disbelief and breaks eye contact, instead looking down at the blood that Andrew left on the bed. “You bled on my sheets.”

“You’re going to wash them anyway.” 

“I think you meant to say ‘I’m going to wash them anyway’.” 

Andrew lifts his hand and flicks him off as a response.

Fletcher heaves a sigh like he’s dealing with the most difficult problem ever, and pulls Andrew to him. He places a hand behind Andrew’s head and applies pressure so Andrew's face is forced to his chest, and wraps his arm around Andrew tight.

It feels like a straightjacket.

(Except for the fact that Fletcher cards though the curls at the base of neck and lightly brushes fingers against his back, trailing in lazy circles with his other hand.  A comfort in the constriction.)

Andrew thinks that maybe he likes the violence because then he can have this sort-of compassion that follows.  He’s fucked up enough to engage in that kind of contingency with Fletcher.  And in the same vein, maybe Fletcher likes it so he can give this different kind of attentiveness for a _reason_ instead of apropos of nothing, because he’d never be so free with affections without a _cause_.

“What’re you thinking about?” Fletcher’s question rumbles in Andrew’s ear, vibrates in his head pressed against Fletcher’s chest.  Andrew knows what it is — he’s probing, trying to pry information out.

“I’m thinking,” Andrew says, his voice slightly muffled, “about how awful you are.”  It isn’t really what he is thinking (his actual thoughts: _nothing nothing nothing_ ), but it’ll stir him up all the same.

Andrew waits for a strike to come — sharp insult and whack to his skull — but it doesn’t.  Alternatively, Fletcher rubs at the place between Andrew’s shoulders and dips his head to kiss his forehead.

The uncertainty makes Andrew bury into him even more, until he feels like he’ll be suffocated.   He hears Fletcher’s heartbeat and feels the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and he finds himself being lulled to sleep.  Again guided by Fletcher’s measure.

**Author's Note:**

> My personal headcanon is that the show on Netflix they were watching is _House of Cards_ , because that seems like a real Fletcher-y show.


End file.
